Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (17 page)

“Who do you know?” Privett asked.

Parson told them how they'd met Blount in Afghanistan. He left out the worst parts, but he made it clear how the big gunnery sergeant had impressed him.

“Yeah, we all love Gunny,” Privett said. “I pray to God he's not dead. If he's not, those terrorists don't know who they're messing with.”

“You got that right,” Parson said.

“So, where do things stand now?” Gold asked.

“These guys are flying out to the crash site today,” Parson said. Loudon frowned and looked toward Gold. Parson added, “Don't worry; she's cleared.”

“Where did it happen?” Gold asked.

Parson went to an aeronautical chart taped to the wall and pointed to an X written in pencil. That spot on the map looked familiar to Gold. It was the same location the prisoner had identified during his interrogation, just before he took the cyanide.

Realization came over Gold like the fever of a sudden illness. The prisoner, Ahmed Bedoor, or whatever his name really was, had played the central role in an elaborate ruse. He'd let himself get captured so he could, with seeming reluctance, give up Kassam's hiding place. But it hadn't been a real hideout. It had been a well-prepared ambush with heavy weapons and chemicals.

“Oh, my God,” Gold said. “This whole thing was a setup from the start.” She told them about Bedoor's capture, interrogation, and suicide.

“Wait,” Privett said, holding up his hand. His eyes narrowed at her, and his expression turned cold. “You mean this is your fault? Some hajji comes in with a bullshit story and you send it right up the chain?”

“Captain—” Loudon said.

“Sir,” Privett said, “due respect, but our guys got chewed up because of bad information from this woman?”

“Captain Privett, you will stand down,” Loudon said.

“You're damned right he'll stand down,” Parson said. He took a step toward Privett as if to start a bar brawl, shook a finger in his face. “You have no idea who you're talking about. She was getting her fingernails pulled out by the Taliban when you were ironing your little white milkman's suit at the Naval Academy.”

Typical Parson, Gold thought. You didn't go off half-cocked with an accusation about someone close to him, especially when he was this tired and had so much responsibility on his shoulders.

Privett backed away from Parson, held out his palms almost as if in surrender, but he cut his eyes again at Gold.

Gold could understand Privett's anger because she shared it. His was misdirected; he didn't realize she'd only interpreted Bedoor's words—not analyzed them and judged their worth. Those decisions had been made elsewhere. The circumstances had allowed little time to consider all the possibilities; actionable intelligence came with a very short shelf life. Commanders often had to give orders quickly and without full information. And this time the Marines had paid a high price.

“Captain Privett,” Gold said, “nobody likes how this has happened. I'm just an interpreter, and I'm as angry about these terrorists as you are. If you'd seen what I've seen—what those chemicals do to people—you'd know what I mean. And I want you to know I came here to help find Gunny Blount.”

Privett still seemed resentful. “Thanks,” he said, “but I don't see how you can help.”

“I do,” Parson said. “I'd like to send somebody out with you to take photos, but I don't have any Air Force people I can spare. If you'll take her with you, I'll get AFRICOM to put her on the flight orders.”

“We'll take plenty of photos,” Privett said.

“I know,
Captain
,” Parson said, emphasizing Privett's lower rank. “But the Air Force will want some of its own, and another set of experienced eyes on the site won't hurt.”

“Fine with me,” Loudon said, “but she'll need chem gear.”

“That, we have,” Parson said. He picked up the phone and made a call.

In a storage tent, a supply sergeant helped Parson find chem gear for Gold. While they searched through stacks of cardboard boxes, Gold said, “Thanks for taking up for me, but you didn't have to be so hard on the captain.”

“Yeah, well, he didn't have to be so hard on you.”

“He's lost some of his men. That would put anybody on the edge.”

“I know.”

The stocks of extra gear included only one gas mask in Gold's size, which was small. She tried on the M45 mask, and it seemed to fit reasonably well. But a guess of “reasonably well” wouldn't cut it in a chemical environment. With Gold still wearing the mask, the sergeant connected a hose from the mask to an electronic test box. The test box's readout confirmed the mask's seals fit tightly enough to keep out toxins.

Next, they found a Chemical Protective Overgarment. Parson pulled out his boot knife and sliced open the vacuum-sealed bag that contained the overgarment. The bag hissed as air rushed into the cut made by Parson's fancy Damascus steel knife.

“Now that I've opened this, it's good only for a hundred twenty days,” Parson said.

“I hope I won't need it for that long,” Gold said.

“Me, too.”

Parson shook out the CPO coat and trousers. Gold pulled on the trousers and placed the suspenders over her shoulders. The carbon-treated fabric left a chalky residue on her fingers. She adjusted the suspenders for better fit, then tugged at the hook-and-pile fasteners on the waistband. Donned the coat, zipped it, closed the drawcord at the waist. Her new gear also included overboots and rubber gloves.

She began sweating immediately. A day in this suit would test anyone's physical fitness. She did not look forward to the misery of wearing this thing in the sun. But it sure beat the agony of death by nerve gas.

B
lount woke to strange surroundings and strange pains. He didn't know the time of day or how long he'd slept. Why did his jawbone hurt? And what were those sore places in his leg muscles? But then awareness flooded back into his mind like the toxins flooding his bloodstream, and he remembered his life was over.

Was he already in hell? He deserved it, he figured, for leaving Bernadette and the girls after telling them he'd returned to stay. But despite the misery of chemical sickness and capture, Blount judged that he remained among the living, at least for now. The scene around him, awful though it was, didn't strike him as a proper representation of hell. Hell would be more crowded.

His clothing felt different. As his mind took stock of his situation, he realized his captors had pulled off his tactical vest and MOPP suit. They must have had to cut the sleeves unless they unfastened his chains while he was out. Now he wore only his combat utility uniform in desert digi-camo, and his desert combat boots.

He needed to piss something awful. He pulled his galvanized pail toward him, unbuttoned the fly of his trousers. Urinated into the pail. His urine flowed dark.

That usually meant dehydration. Blount had no doubt he was dehydrated, but he'd been dehydrated before. And he'd never seen urine that dark—like homemade cider. It smelled bad, too. Was there blood in it? No telling the ways that poison had jacked him up. So maybe he had some kind of kidney problem.

Doesn't matter, he thought to himself. They're gon' kill you a lot
sooner than kidney failure will get you, and they'll do it in a much worse way.

The sound of piss gurgling into the pail woke the tough-looking Legionnaire to Blount's left. The man grunted, opened his eyes. Winced and placed a chained hand to the pressure bandage on his leg. No one else was in the room except Fender, chained to the wall to Blount's right, so Blount decided to risk conversation. He buttoned his fly and spoke in a whisper.

“Hey, bud. What's your name?” The cracked jaw made it hurt to talk.

The man frowned like he didn't understand. Blount wondered if the guy spoke English at all. But then the man said, “Ivan. Legionnaire First Class Ivan Turgenev.”

Thick accent. English obviously wasn't his first language, and probably not his second, either. Blount figured his second would be French.

“You a Russian?”

The man nodded.

“I'm Blount. Gunnery sergeant, U.S. Marines. This boy here is Fender. They got more of our guys in the next room.”

Before Turgenev could reply, one of the dirtbags came running in. The dirtbag aimed an AK-47 in Blount's general direction and shouted, “Quiet! No talk! Pasha coming.”

Blount braced himself for a boot to the ribs or a rifle stock to the face. But the terrorist just turned and went back into the other room. Started yammering in Arabic with the other terrorists.

Now what had the dirtbag just said? Pashcoming? Some Arabic word, maybe. No, he wouldn't talk Arabic to me, Blount thought. Pash—pasha coming. Somebody was coming. Somebody named Pasha? Whatever it was, it was a big deal to these scumbags. Blount got it: The boss was coming.

So what could that mean? Probably nothing good. Think, Blount
told himself. Maintain appearances. Let 'em believe you're too weak to do anything when they come to take you away to kill you.

Not a hard thing to do, either. Blount still felt weak. His muscles had stiffened as if gummed up with molasses. He hoped they let him live at least another day; he thought he'd need at least that long to get better—assuming he got better at all. Taking one of them with him when he died remained his goal. But if they came to get him now, he wouldn't have enough fight in him. Just like old Samson, he thought, please give me my strength back in the last five minutes of my life.

From outside, Blount heard the sound of a vehicle pulling up. Maybe more than one vehicle. Lots of babbling in Arabic. How did they understand one another when they all kept talking at the same time? He sat up, slid on his hips across the floor to the farthest reach of his chains, tried to look out a window.

The chains would have allowed Blount to stand; they had enough length for that. But he didn't want his captors to know he had the strength to get up. Truth to tell, he didn't know for sure whether he
could
get up. Maybe tomorrow.

Blount could see nothing except the red fireball of the sun low in the sky. He didn't even know which way was east or west, so he couldn't tell with certainty whether the sun was rising or sinking. Without his watch, he could only guess. The scumbags didn't act like they'd just gotten up, so maybe it was late afternoon. He'd find out in a few minutes as he watched the sun come up or go down.

The sun settled lower. So he'd slept—or remained unconscious—all day. Or at least a day. He had no idea.

Fender began to stir. Blount half crawled, half pulled himself by one of his chains to return to the young Marine's side. The sweat on Blount's arms felt slimy, not like the healthy perspiration of a workout but the fever sweat of sickness. Dust and grit clung to his wet skin, adding to the general sense of filth and illness. Fender opened
his eyes, and Blount noticed the corporal's expression of horror. No, Fender, Blount thought, this ain't a bad dream. It's real. Blount had just experienced the same kind of awakening several minutes earlier.

“Don't talk or make a lot of noise,” Blount whispered. “Some kind of boss man just got here.”

Fender's expression turned quizzical. Blount had no more answers to give. He wished he could tell Fender to remember his training, his Code of Conduct. For that matter, Blount hoped he himself could live up to the Code. He couldn't remember the whole thing, but Article III, the section most relevant to him now, stuck in his mind:
If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and help others escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.

Well, that last part didn't count for much here. A special favor from this enemy would mean dying by a bullet instead of a blade. But the Code's overall points still held. Blount considered that he, Fender, and every other allied serviceman here remained on duty. Just because you got captured didn't mean you didn't have responsibilities.

Fender unbuttoned and pissed into his pail. Blount couldn't see the color of the urine. After Fender finished, Blount decided to risk talking one more time.

“You sick?”

“Kinda. You?”

Blount held out his hand, palm down. Waggled it side to side, chain clanking. So-so. I'm feeling just so-so. Fender nodded.

At least he wasn't blubbering. That's right, boy, Blount thought. Resist. Even if that means nothing except not letting them see you break down.

The chattering in Arabic continued in the next room, but now one voice addressed the others. Evidently the boss was telling them what was what. Blount wondered what the other three prisoners in
there were seeing and hearing. Whatever they were doing, they weren't talking. Blount had never heard them speak.

After a while, Blount smelled something cooking. At first he thought his chemical-addled senses fooled him, but the smell grew stronger. Maybe the scumbags were about to feed the prisoners. Blount didn't feel like eating; under these circumstances he could certainly take no pleasure from a meal. But he decided to eat whatever they gave him. He wanted one last burst of strength, and for that he needed nourishment.

Boss man in there kept on yakking. Blount had attended mission briefs that didn't take that long. Probably prattling on about some jihadist kill-the-infidels foolishness.

The sermon finally ended. One of the terrorists, Rat Face, brought in two clay bowls of something that steamed. He put one bowl down beside Fender and the other beside Ivan. Blount wondered if out of spite Rat Face was going to starve him, but the terrorist came back with one more bowl and set it down beside him. Rat Face plunked it to the floor so quickly that some of the contents sloshed out. Then he danced backward to get out of Blount's reach.

Yeah, you're scared of me, Blount thought.

Rat Face brought no spoons or any other kind of utensils. Blount looked into the bowl. Boiled lentils, cooked down almost to a soup. He dipped three fingers and a thumb into the bowl and scooped out some of the lentils. Put them in his mouth and tried not to think about the dirt on his hands. Chewed. Swallowed.

Didn't taste very good, but Blount decided to eat all that he could force down. No, he'd save just a little bit. Ivan started eating with his fingers. Fender just stared at his bowl.

“Eat,” Blount whispered.

Fender nodded, dipped his fingers into his bowl. That's right, Blount thought, maintain your body. Here, for all intents and purposes, it ain't nothing but government property.

Blount ate as many of the lentils as he could with his hands. Then he lifted the bowl to his lips and slurped. Some of the broth ran down his chin. He stopped drinking when only a mouthful of the liquid remained.

A few minutes after he finished eating, three dirtbags came into the room: Rat Face, a terrorist Blount decided to call Monkey Ears, and one of the strangest-looking characters Blount had ever seen. The boss, apparently, or the pasha, or whatever they called him. The dude had a great big orange beard, like some meth-addicted redneck, and he wore a flintlock pistol stuck in a sash around his waist.

A
flintlock
.

So this was Sadiq Kassam himself, with that ancient pistol supposedly taken from an American serviceman a couple hundred years ago.

Where on this broad earth would a North African terrorist get something like that? Had it really been passed down by generations of Muslim fighters? You certainly wouldn't depend on it as a weapon in this day and age; a zip gun made in prison would be more reliable. You'd carry it only as a symbol.

Blount decided to ponder all that later. Now looked like a good time for some tactical deception.

He sipped the last of the broth in his bowl. Swished the broth around in his mouth to mix it with saliva. Put his hand to his waist like his stomach hurt. Actually, his stomach
did
hurt, but not that bad. Jerked his legs a little bit, and breathed in and out fast through his nostrils. Leaned over his piss pail, which gave off a stench foul as any hog pen. Spat into the pail like he was vomiting.

The dirtbags started talking their abba-dabba talk. Monkey Ears said, “The pasha says Allah's justice has laid you low with illness.”

So one of them spoke English. All right, Blount told himself, think. Keep consistent. Take your time. Use your training for this, and don't say the wrong thing.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to answer, then held his face over his pail like he might throw up again. Yeah, Blount thought, I'm trying to be polite and answer you, but dag-nabbit, I'm just sick as a dog. And buying time. We'll just see how this plays out.

Before Blount could decide what to say, Ivan spoke up.

“You have poisoned him nearly to death. He needs a doctor. I need a doctor.”

Ooo, Blount thought, Ivan's figured it out. Not stupid, that one. Got a little teamwork going here. A tiny victory. Let's roll with it.

Monkey Ears started speaking Arabic, and then Kassam jabbered for a while.

“You will get a doctor only when your governments meet our demands,” Monkey Ears translated.

Ivan seemed to think for a moment, considering his words with care. Bet this guy started in the Russian Spetsnaz, Blount thought, then got into some kind of trouble and had to leave the country. No telling what kind of high crimes and misdemeanors led him to join the French Foreign Legion. Who'd have thought this would be the fellow watching my back?

“What are your demands?” Ivan asked.

Monkey Ears spoke in Arabic, Kassam answered, Monkey Ears translated.

“That all your forces leave this continent and never return. If any foreign troops remain in Africa after tomorrow, we will behead one of you each day.”

A wave of nausea came over Blount. Not from any chemicals inside him but from a kind of fear he'd never experienced before.

He'd known from the moment of capture that they faced impossible odds. But perhaps some part of his mind had held out crazy hope that this would turn out different. Maybe the captors would want to bargain for something reasonable. However, foreign troops leaving tomorrow was deliberately unreasonable. These dirtbags had
no intention of making a deal. They planned to behead everybody. One a day, for six days. Command the headlines for the better part of a week.

Blount's fingers began to tremble. He recognized this as a loss of fine motor skills, a physical manifestation of terror. Not familiar territory for Blount; he was more used to making his enemies shake with fear. He'd faced danger before, but nothing like this. The fight-or-flight instinct kicked in hard, but Blount could do neither. He found himself on a level of fear beyond anything he'd imagined. His breathing grew rapid and shallow, and this time it wasn't an act.

Fender began to rock back and forth on his hips like he'd done before. A strange whine escaped from between the corporal's closed lips, a long, one-note keen. Ivan closed his eyes tightly, as if a halogen lamp were shining in his face. Chains clanked in the next room; the prisoners in there had heard the threat, too. One way or another, everybody entered some kind of panic response.

Rat Face smirked. Monkey Ears looked at Kassam as if waiting for instructions. Kassam drew the flintlock, began waving it around and yammering in Arabic.

Blount didn't worry about getting shot with the old pistol. Kassam probably didn't have the black powder it needed. And if the weapon did actually fire, dying by gunshot would be a mercy compared to what was coming.

After lots of gesturing and posing, Kassam placed the pistol on the table with the weapons and equipment taken from the prisoners. Blount tried to force himself to concentrate through his terror and keep a semblance of situational awareness. Understand what's happening, he told himself.